


Sweet Thing

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curt Wild is a doomed revolutionary fighting against the Reynolds regime; Arthur Stuart is an idealistic young rent boy in the wrong part of town – and hope, boys, is a cheap thing, cheap thing. It’s all very Diamond Dogs-inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Thing

The night wind was bitter. Curt was dying for a cigarette, but couldn’t light one just yet, lest he should attract unwanted attention in the dark street. He pulled the hood of his coat back up and looked around. The grimy road was quiet enough; the state police didn’t watch this neighbourhood all that closely – not yet – but one could never be _too_ cautious.

They called it the Crossroads. It was an appropriate name, and Curt had spent enough time here in low dens smoking poison, or dodging the President’s police, or plotting with Brian and Mandy and Jack and all the rest. That was when there _was_ a rest of them, not just Curt. There was a church in this area with a cellar where they used to meet, and a dozen seedy dive bars and tenements where they wouldn’t be noticed. But then Brian had cut a deal with the President and turned them in one by one, until there was no one left but Curt.

Brian was from that caste originally. His parents had known Reynolds growing up, and his new wife Shannon was a distant cousin to the President as well as a rising Minister. They had taken an estate just outside the city. The thought of it sickened Curt. And when he remembered what they’d done to Jack he could hardly stand it…

He needed to forget, more than he ever had. They’d find him, too, sooner or later. He’d been too visible, like Brian, or like some fucking celebrity. They had all been too visible, and now they were paying the price. If Curt spent his last days in a drugged sleep in some house of ill repute – well. It would be a far cry from the heroic rebel people had thought him for a while, but then, he couldn’t be that – do that – anymore. He couldn’t do it alone.

His hands shook. But when an airship passed overhead, engine keening and spotlights blaring, Curt had the good sense to duck into the shadow of a tenement hall. He _wanted_ to look up but didn’t: he recognized the sound of the President’s guard’s craft, and he was public enemy number one these days. So he waited until the ship passed out of sight.

He stepped back into the street. It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of anyone in the tenements. Even in this part of town people had to obey the law, for the most part, and Curt was listless, shaky. Someone might remark on him.

It was sort of funny. He hadn’t felt this craving for chemicals when he was a hero, when he and Brian and all of them were fighting things – righting wrongs, or trying to at least. They were going to change the world. But all of that went away, with Brian.

A new thought struck Curt. He stood up straighter and told himself that he might just go home. The sight of the airship had stirred his defiance. He was _Curt Wild_ , the only survivor of the People’s Resistance, and it wouldn’t do for him to be captured passed out in some opium den. He had to go out fighting, for his image if nothing else.

A dog howled in the distance. Curt hurried across the wet street. A rat, almost as big as a cat, really, scurried out of the space between two shut-up buildings and glared at Curt through yellow eyes. Curt ignored it. He recognized this area and turned another corner, impulsively.

There was a bar at the end of the street – the Rooftop, it was called – a front more than anything, where you could buy another kind of forgetfulness for the night and pick up a bit of rough trade, like the painted young man leaning in the doorway. Curt nodded at him and quickened his pace.

He drew closer and smiled at the young man – seventeen, maybe, with a good body and kohl-rimmed brown eyes. The youth dropped his studied sultry look when Curt approached and gazed at him with real interest. _Good_ , Curt thought.

“Coming in, sir?”

Curt nodded again.

“If I can have _you_ ,” he said, “and a private room. I’ll buy you a drink first.”

They crossed the threshold together. Curt put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  

“I’ll take a Scotch,” he said, gesturing toward the host. “And a back room. Something private.”

The man nodded and turned to the bar.

“What would you like?” Curt asked his companion. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it, suppressing a sigh of relief.

“Same as you,” the younger man said.

“Make that two,” Curt said to the host, who served them and indicated one of the chambers at the back with hardly a word.

They took their drinks into a back room. It was typical of this sort of place – tiny, peeling paint, and a battered table beside a double bed. Curt hesitated before shrugging off his hood. But then, he’d have to risk it eventually. He couldn’t exactly fuck this boy without undressing.

Sure enough, the young man’s eyes went wide. _Damn_ , Curt thought. For a moment his blood ran cold. His mind flashed to the gun he kept secure and quiet beneath his jacket – but violence was hardly appropriate now, even if this boy did recognize him.

“What’s your name?” Curt asked, stalling for time.

“Arthur,” the young man replied. His tone was awed and he’d hesitated before answering, as if he’d forgotten his own damn name; he definitely recognized Curt. _Fuck_. _Shit. I_ knew _this was a bad idea…_

Curt stared at Arthur for a long moment. His heart had begun to pound in his chest. He could just _see_ it, getting blackmailed or worse, turned in by some renter. Arthur looked trustworthy enough, for a kid in the Crossroads, but then, Curt had trusted Brian – had _loved_ Brian – Judas that he was.

But Arthur reached to touch Curt’s face in a sudden impulsive gesture that reassured Curt some. His hand actually shook; Curt supposed he must be very new to his trade.

“I – you’re Curt Wild,” he said, stupidly.

Curt jerked back. “Yeah…”

Arthur’s eyes went even wider. He opened his mouth, apparently couldn’t think of anything and closed it before finally finding his voice again.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I mean, the way things are going, I hope you’re – safe and all that. If I could help you…”

“Yeah?” Curt countered. He downed the rest of his drink all at once, wincing at the cheap sour taste. “Well, you can’t talk about this this to anyone, for one thing –”

“Of course –“

“And you can come closer,” Curt added, taking off his coat and letting Arthur see the weapon he had concealed. He hoped it would imply some sort of threat, even if he _was_ losing his touch. _Then again, I always was a sucker for a pretty face…_

Arthur drew closer to Curt. Curt cupped his chin, tentatively.

“You’re not frightened?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Alone with a wanted radical?”

“No,” Arthur replied. “You’re like a hero to me. I –“

Curt could not suppress a harsh laugh. Arthur went silent.

“No, you can tell me,” Curt said. “But finish your drink first.”

They’d probably charge him more for wasting Arthur’s time, but Curt didn’t care. This place was cheap enough. Anyway, he couldn’t exactly take money with him, where he was likely to end up. And – it was more than that. He was scared and lonely, and a shy kid like Arthur in a hellhole like this could probably relate. Kindred spirit, or something. _Maybe._

“I always – believed in you,” Arthur said, after gulping a shot of Scotch. He spoke slowly, as if it were a wrench for him to speak up at all. “My dad didn’t want me to; he said it was dangerous and things are good enough as they are. That’s sort of how I ended up here.”

“Recently?” Curt asked, busying himself with his cigarette.

Arthur nodded. “Had to support myself somehow…”

Curt had already known. Arthur had tried to look jaded and knowing, but had failed at all of it and had given up the façade almost as soon as Curt nodded at him. He was so naïve and idealistic; it was actually kind of painful to hear. _Sweet thing_ , Curt thought. Really Arthur looked as if he needed a kind word and a proper night’s rest more than anything else.

Curt knew the feeling.

“Whatever you’re planning – if you go away or something – I’d help you,” Arthur continued. “If I could.”

Curt grimaced. He hadn’t wanted to think about _anything_ now, but he supposed he needed to do something rather than just give up. Maybe he could escape, like people said he would – forge papers, go into exile. Continue to write and raise hell from outside the City.  For a second he actually imagined taking Arthur with him, though the idea was absurd. Arthur was already an outcast for sleeping with men, and for money at that. The regime would be happy to tear him apart to get at Curt.

“Do what I’m paying for,” Curt said.

Arthur stiffened, hurt. Maybe shocked, too; Curt wasn’t sure. He leaned over to kiss Arthur to make amends, hoping that Brian and this hell of a City hadn’t hardened him beyond all tenderness.

“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured. “D’you want another drink? I’ll make it good for you,” he added, and wondered if he could still sound like the carefree seducer he had once been. “I’ll mangle your mind…”

Arthur laughed a little as he turned over. Curt pushed away all thoughts of the future – all thoughts of despair. It was so like him, to mask fear and pain with sex or worse. But it was beautiful, too, in a way. Arthur moaned beneath him and rocked his hips in time with Curt’s thrusts and with the rhythm of Curt’s hand on his cock, and when they finished Curt felt lighter, somehow. _Hopeful_ , almost.

He collapsed back on the bed beside Arthur. Perhaps he could survive to fight another day, as Arthur thought…

There was a knock at the door.

“Arthur?” a man’s voice called – the host, probably, judging from Arthur’s reaction. He started up with a sigh, but Curt put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Fuck off,” Curt called through the door. “I’m staying the night with him. Add it to my tab.”

Arthur grinned at him. Curt found he rather _liked_ this Arthur. Besides, the regime wouldn’t know to look for Curt here. He was actually pretty safe.

For now.

**Author's Note:**

> When I learned that they originally wanted Bowie's Sweet Thing in place of Tumbling Down during the rooftop scene, I decided to adopt that song as a prompt for a Curt/Arthur story. This... was not the result I expected. You may recognize bits of Sweet Thing/The Candidate, Future Legend, Panic in Detroit (I know, not even off Diamond Dogs) and of course bits of Velvet Goldmine (the movie) itself.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta reader gonergone for encouragement and quick turnaround.


End file.
